Mystrade Drabbles
by explodedchildren
Summary: Exactly what the title says. Just a bunch of crappy drabbles, I don't know. Will mostly be fluff, some angst or hurt/comfort or whatever.
1. One

**But you're a Policeman**

Mycroft was stirring his coffee on the kitchen worktop when there were three brisk taps on the door. He glanced at the clock on the wall to find it was ten fourteen. Greg was working late, but was supposed to have been home by nine at the latest. Still, it wasn't unusual for at least one of the men to be held back at work, chasing after either a serial murderer or Sherlock Holmes, or negotiating the country out of a nuclear war.

When he answered the door, however, he was startled. As he had expected, there stood is lover, though he looked slightly different than when Mycroft had last seen him, earlier that day when he was getting dressed. It took a second for him to process the change. There was blood along his hairline, drying dark red and sticky in his silver hair, the shadow of a forming black eye, a half-ripe bruise on his cheek, and his lip was split. He looked a little frustrated and a little sheepish when his fiancé stuttered this information.

"Mugged," he explained, half out of breath. "Can I come in, then?"

Wordless, Mycroft stepped away from the door to allow Greg to actually enter the hallway, and then closed it and leaned against it, closing his eyes, deep in thought. "You were...mugged?" he said eventually, still pressed against the hard mahogany of the door, while Greg watched him worriedly from across the landing.

"Yes..."

"But...but you're a _policeman_."

"I...It...Uh, well, y'know. I wasn't really paying attention to the other people around me..."

"You were _walking_? Why were you not in a cab?"

"It was fine, My. Calm down, really. I just...well...I lost my wallet, and..." he stuttered sheepishly, ducking his head as if in shame.

"You should have phoned me!"

"They took my phone too, didn't they?" This question didn't seem to make sense to Mycroft, but it was muttered half-embarrassedly and half-angrily, his eyes darting quickly around the hallway, settling anywhere but on the other's face.

"You shouldn't have walked all this way. Not in that state."

"I was fine, My..."

"It's raining. It's not _safe_. You were _assaulted_-"

"I'm fine, I'm fine..." he trailed off. "I can smell coffee."

Mycroft rolled his eyes but smiled at him, tiny and shy. "You want one? Come on...let's get you sorted out."

He led him slowly into the kitchen, noting the small limp his partner had picked up somewhere. Sighing somewhat silently, he pulled a chair out for Lestrade to sit on, and put the kettle on again, forgetting about his old drink and making two new ones. Putting them both down on the table carefully, trying to mask the way his hands were trembling, he wandered upstairs to retrieve paracetamol and a first aid kit from the medicine cupboard. When he returned, Lestrade was gone, but he found him laying on his front on the sofa, groaning quietly.

"Greg? Could you sit up, darling?"

The other man did so obediently though reluctantly, wincing at every insignificant movement. Mycroft helped him shift around until he was at least half-comfortable, gave him the tablets and dressed and bandaged and soothed his injuries. Eventually, Lestrade's ragged breathing slowed and calmed, so it was almost normal and much less forced.

"Okay?" Mycroft checked, pressing the back of his hand to Lestrade's temple. It was deliciously icy, and Greg captured it, holding it there for as long as possible. He tugged gently at Mycroft's sleeve until he took the hint and sat down next to him. While he answered, Lestrade turned cautiously around so that he was resting on Mycroft's chest, his lover's hand still massaging his forehead.

"Yeah...yes..." His words slurred sleepily together, and Mycroft wondered if he should get Lestrade to bed, while stroking said man's hair. However, the way Greg's eyes fluttered so exhaustedly closed, and the soft snores that soon emitted from him convinced Mycroft that, just for now, it would be fine for them to stay just there, holding each other.

By the time Lestrade awoke at seven thirty the next morning, with ripe new bruises spreading out across his skin, Mycroft had dropped off too, and they were splayed out on the sofa, completely entangled with one another. Lestrade glanced up tiredly to check the time, then shrugged and closed his eyes again; his partner was too warm and too comfy for him to care about going to work today.


	2. Two

**That's What People Do**

**GPOV:**

"Marry me."

The words are so sudden and so flat I wonder if I've misheard. One does not simply _propose_ like that. Not with both parties naked in bed at eleven in the morning on a Monday – or is it Tuesday? – when both should really be at work by now.

"I'm sorry?" My voice is tipped with scepticism, unsure of what to make of the situation. My turns around, so he's no longer lying on his front but on his side, facing me, our fingers entwined.

"I said, _marry me_."

"Wh- What?" I'm still confused.

He props himself up on his elbow, staring intently at me. My hand, of its own accord, reaches out and begins tracing his ribs, drawing a line down his sternum. "I'm proposing to you, Gregory. Asking for your hand in marriage- whatever they call it. _Civil union_. I'll get it sorted..."

"I...uh..."

"Please?"

"Why?"

He frowns, doubtful. I hope my awkwardness isn't being mistook for hesitation – reluctance, even. I'm just not used to being the one who _answers_ that question. "That's what people do, isn't it? Get married?"

"What people do _when_?"

He sighs, explaining like I'm a child: "When they have been in a dedicated relationship for a considerable amount of time and feel they wish to unite with each other on another level."

A smile teases my lips, and I reach out to his forehead, kissing the half-frown away. "So, that's it? You wish to unite with me on another level?" I kiss him again, and he kisses back, if somewhat reluctantly, grumbling under his breath.

"You still haven't said yes," he pouts, when I pull away, gasping.

"Yes," I mutter, and get back to kissing him. His lips migrate from my mouth, where they are chaste, down my neck and across my shoulders, until he's practically biting me.

"I'm sorry?" he whispers against my collarbone, presumably a deliberate echo of my earlier self.

"I said, _yes_."

He pulls back, his hands still glued to my shoulders, and fixes his icy eyes on mine, staring into them. My own eyes travel from his face, down his neck and erratically moving chest, and find I'm breathing just as heavily, though whether from anticipation or exhaustion, I have no idea.

"Yes, _what_?" His voice is definitely teasing now, and even he can't keep that half grin off his lips.

"Yes, Mycroft Holmes, I will marry you." I pause for a second, and he grins, and then kisses me. "Now, come here, you git. I'm late for work already, I want you to make it worth my while."

"Certainly, Gregory," he murmurs, and his lips are on my stomach, soft and gentle, but his teeth are there too.

"Just wait until Sherlock finds out," I smile, and he leans back, pausing his kissing for a second, to playfully smack me.


	3. Three

**Miserable at Best**

**MPOV:**

_There's blood; so much blood. Enough blood for twenty men, not just this one. _Too much blood_, he thinks, but then he doesn't think anything anymore. _No_. No, this is not how it started; how did it start-_

"My?" Greg asks when I answer the phone. "I might be late tonight. We've caught up with a guy – the one I showed you in the paper, who founded that cult – but he's hiding. Sherlock's gone after him, and we're right behind... I've got to go. See you soon. Soon-_ish_."

"Be careful, love."

"Always am. You, too. Love you."

I smile, despite my concern. Gregory is a police officer; he's used to this, he's good at it, and there's _nothing_ to worry about.

"Okay. I love you too."

Then he hangs up; that's the last I hear from him.

X.x.X

"Mycroft? Mycroft, where are you?" My brother's voice is frantic and, frankly, terrifying. Because Sherlock is aloof and does not get _attached_; if he is concerned, clearly someone is dying.

Who is dying?

"Islington."

"We're in Camden; I'll text you the address. Oh, god... Mycroft, you have to come immediately. I..." He trails off. When Sherlock is lost for words, something unfathomably terrible is happening.

My throat seems to close in on itself, my airway constricting; I can't breathe, let alone speak. Anthea looks up from her phone to glance half-anxiously at me, and I stutter: "Well, how urgent is it?"

"Life or death. Probably just death. Damn- Just...just hurry up!"

I swallow hard again, and don't reply, because I can't face speaking. My phone buzzes and an address is barked at the driver – when did we get in the car? – and too many long minutes later we arrive at a crime scene. There's tape around the building but no one guarding it, so I duck straight underneath.

Inside the – warehouse? – there's nothing but the stench of damp and rust, and the unnerving pitter-patter of rats' feet. Another sound follows, like dripping this time, maybe a leak. It's gloomy, but well-lit enough to make out faint outlines. One person is upside-down, and seems to be the source of the sound.

I half-sprint towards them, in time to see their body flop to the ground. I glance nervously upwards to find half a chain suspended from the ceiling, and even more nervously downwards to find the other half of the chain wrapped around the ankle of the mess of a person. There's blood all over him and his face is hard to distinguish for all the red, but I'd recognise it anywhere. The floor appears beneath me, and my hands flutter to his.

"Greg?" My voice cracks drily, and in the dim light, I see half a limp smile. Sherlock is hovering nearby with some sort of tool in his hand, and a few of uniforms are there, as well as three of Greg's colleagues. I note radios crackling, cars going past outside, and my own heartbeat. None of this registers, though: the only thing I can focus on is how irregular Greg's breathing is, how icy his hands are, and how much blood there is.

"My? You're..." He stops suddenly, choking on something. I dread to think it's his own blood, but my brother brings out a hanky and wipes Greg's mouth with it: the white is blotched with crimson now.

"I'm here, Greg."

He nods weakly in response, not wanting to, or unable to, reply verbally. One hand stays gripping his chilly fingers, the other slips up to his face, caressing his bloody cheek. Someone's pressed a scarf to it in an attempt to stop it from bleeding. So far, it doesn't seem to be working.

"You called an ambulance?" I guess questioningly in the direction of anyone listening. Sherlock replies confirming that he has, not even having the heart to throw in a sarcastic comment, and I swear there's something like _worry_ clouding his voice.

Greg coughs again, though it's less hacking and more of a gargle, and Sherlock's convenient hanky reappears. This time, when he's finished with it, he hands it to me, and I take it reluctantly. Greg's eyes close in the millisecond I turn away from him, but I lean down to plant a firm kiss on his rusty lips and they blink open for another second.

"Stay with me, love," I practically demand, though the order is gentle. He nods again, though the look in his eyes is glassy: it's obvious he's only placating me.

"'M n-not go'n' anywhe-" he half-slurs, so it's hard to tell what he's saying. I get the gist, though, and kiss him again.

"I love you," I say, my voice thankfully unwavering, and he blinks up at me, eyes big and naive now. This can't be good.

"Love you too." His voice is half a whisper, thick with blood. The ocean of crimson in his throat only gets deeper.

"Stay with me, Greg," I instruct him, though I'm half-certain it's too late.

His mouth opens but he doesn't answer, and then his eyes close again and the uneven breathing stops – as does my heartbeat. There's a brief choke, and then his breaths re-emerge, his eyes remaining tightly shut.

"I love you, Greg," I murmur, my lips on his. "You're not going anywhere."

But he does. His breath halts again: mine does too, waiting for his to restart. His hands get colder and his already loose grip on mine completely fades. His eyes aren't squeezed so tight; he looks half-peaceful.

I kiss him again before I breathe; even then it's only a choked sob. Sherlock is suddenly behind me, and he's dragging me away; he's speaking, but no... I want to stay with Greg, I want him to wake up and for this all to be a dream, a joke, a lie...I want...

"My! My, wake up. Mycroft!"

The voice is soft and rough and sleepy and anxious at the same time. My eyes snap open, and Greg's face is right there, right above mine, his hand on my cheek, cool against the fever. Am I dead?

"Greg?" My voice is just as gravelly as it is in the...nightmare?

"I'm here, My. It's okay. You're safe, we're safe. Everything's fine."

"You were...bleeding..."

"I know. I was. But John was there, remember? It was okay. I'm here now."

"John wasn't there in the nightmare."

Greg's hands are warm and gentle when they wrap around me and rub my back. I collapse into his chest, glad I'm not standing up or I'd have been on the floor by now.

"He isn't. You have the same one every night, remember?"

I shake my head against his grey t-shirt, closing my eyes as his hands run through my hair softly. It makes everything go away for a while.

"You do, My," his voice is practically liquid now. "I die in the dream, and then you wake up, and I'm not dead. That's all. It's okay."

"How much...how much of it is true?"

Greg winces against me but keeps his arms just as strong around me. "All of it, apart from... Well, actually..."

I hesitate, then go ahead and probe, warmly as I can, "You died, didn't you?"

"Twice. For seven minutes in total."

"But John was there."

"The first time. The second was in the ambulance. I was fine, I was always fine."

My voice is thick with something I don't understand? _Sentiment_? "Why don't I remember any of this, then?"

Greg rubs my back and my hair for a long time, so that I'm almost asleep anyway, before he replies. "I think you made yourself forget, but you can't keep it up at night. So then you remember, and, well...you know what you're like. You remember the worst-case scenario."

"What if I made myself remember, though? Would the nightmares go away?"

"I don't know, darling. Maybe. I hope so."

His chest is warm, and the covers are thick, and the sound of his heartbeat in my ear is more than relaxing. My eyes start to shut, but before I'm completely under, I enquire: "Do we have the same conversation every night?"

Greg chuckles, warm and alive, and I open one eye to look up at him, half-smiling myself because he is happy for some reason. "No. Well, nearly... It always changes a little. You never remember."

"Thank you, love."

There's a hint of hesitation – confusion? "For what, My?"

"Staying alive."

He kisses the top of my head briefly and then answers, "Well, you're welcome. Thank _you_."

"For what?"

"For doing the same."


End file.
